The Turning Wheels
[This is the opening prologue to H. A. Covington's novel A Distant Thunder, the memoirs of an old veteran of the Northwest Volunteer Army who speaks of his experiences during the Northwest War of Independence.]
At the end of the twentieth century, there was a Japanese college professor named Francis Fukuyama. He wrote a long, intellectual, and très chic essay called The End of History that became quite famous.
Francis Fukuyama was an intellectual whore who sold his mind for money. He was a tame academic who sucked up to the wealthy and powerful of his era, big time. He told them what they wanted to hear and he reaped their largesse. When the blank-faced white men in the silk suits said jump, Francis Fukuyama asked “How high?” When the suits said run, Francis Fukuyama asked “How far?” He politely avoided the mildly disturbing term plutocracy, and substituted a much more fashionable practice of publicly referring to the wealthy, corrupt, amoral, incompetent, discreetly homosexual Anglo-Zionist corporate ruling élite of the late twentieth century by the grotesque name of liberal democracy. It was, of course, neither liberal nor democratic, but truth didn’t matter in those days.
Fukuyama argued that liberal democracy was the final form of human government for all time to come. He claimed that the allegedly irresistible combination of liberal democracy and multinational capitalism had triumphed over all other competing systems such as monarchy, fascism, communism, National Socialism, welfare state socialism, and of course that nasty Islamic theocracy of the ignorant Arab peasants that persecuted poor little helpless Israel so.
History was now at an end, Professor Fukuyama told the world. All that remained was to formalize that fact by taking care of a few little details and getting everybody on board and whipped into shape. Then once we got rid of all those picky little odds and ends like race, and religion, and culture, and morality, and the traditional nuclear family—in other words, once we destroyed all that makes humanity truly diverse in the non-politically correct sense of the term—then all the nations of the earth would boogie down in one great conga line onto the great worldwide Euro-American consumer plantation.
There mankind would graze in the grass, dancing and singing and blowing dope and fucking anything with a pulse, bathed in the warm soothing glow from the television. The very flow of history itself would cease and the Garden of Eden would be reborn, but instead of a serpent in our new paradise we’d have only Ronald McDonald. The world would henceforth and forever be benevolently ruled from the corporate boardroom by pale, unseen beings in expensive suits, while at their shoulder for spiritual guidance whispered the holy rabbi Hyman Heeblebaum from Temple Schmuck-El, wearing his little blue and white knitted beanie, his heart filled with the brotherhood of man and confident in his ancient Talmudic knowledge of what is best for us all.
The United States of America into which I was born was all a lie. A cheap, shoddy, vicious, evil lie that deserved nothing but bloody death at the point of the sword. In the United States of America, if you had a white skin and a dick on you, if you had no money, then you were nothing. Get back, redneck!
No one cared about you. No one would lift a finger to help you, and all you were good for was to fix the rich people’s appliances and toys. You were raw material for biped swine in suits to make money for themselves off your sweat and your pain. You lived your whole life like a dog, you were beaten like a dog, and you died like a dog.
Well, by God, we showed those rich sons of bitches and their smart Jew lawyers and their pet monkeys that dogs have teeth! Oh, yeah. Amazing what a few well-placed bullets and a dab or two of Semtex under some rabbi’s kosher tuchis can do to get the wheels of history jump-started and turning back on track.
My name is Shane Ryan. I was one of those little details Fukuyama and his kind could never quite take care of. I was a Northwest Volunteer.
This is how we started the wheels of history turning again.